


Empty Gold

by itakethewords (BluntBetty)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Empty, Hope, Introspection, Loneliness, Longing, M/M, Moving, New Beginnings, Regret, mild depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 07:52:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9428267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BluntBetty/pseuds/itakethewords
Summary: Gold could only get you so far.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Yuri!!! On Ice.  
> Also, the beginning and the end are lyrics to "Empty Gold" by Halsey. I don't own that, either.

_ I, I must confess _

_ How hard I tried to breathe _

_ Through the trees of loneliness. _

_ And you, you must confess _

_ How hard you need to see _

_ Through the heart beating out my chest. _

* * *

 

Viktor Nikiforov, at the age of twenty-five, found himself contemplating retirement from the one thing he had in this life. Figure skating had become hollow, likewise giving him a semblance of emptiness and a lack of gumption. Every competition, exhibition, performance. It was all the same. The same whispers from the staff: excitement that  _ the _ Viktor Nikiforov was there, speculation if he’d live up to his last performance, and the utter lack of surprise afterward that he’d managed to top the podium. The same looks from the competition: fear, curious interest or excitement from the greener skaters, contempt, the lack of interest from those who’d been beat time and  time again by him. The same questions from the reporters, the same answers from his lips. The same ceremony time and time again: the noise of his homeland’s anthem blaring on speakers that sometimes were old and rang tinny and echoed. The same ass-kissing after the skating with sponsors. Flutes of champagne fell flat, hors d'oeuvres that tasted like cardboard. The cheers from the stands were static now. The well-wishers and handshakes so fake, so cold.

The feeling of gold around his neck meant nothing anymore.

He wondered if silver felt different. He couldn’t remember, it had been so long. Bronze. Was it lighter? Did it shine differently these days? Heaven forbid if he didn’t medal.

The show went on and Viktor didn’t retire. How could he? Yakov expected so much from him and he couldn’t let his coach down. His rink mates. He could still surprise people. He surprised himself with that thought, certainly. His twenty-sixth year brought the same time and time again. Nationals, yes. European championships? Easy. Worlds? It honestly felt like the other skaters had given up, quit before they’d even tried. Handing him what they all assumed to be the gold medal already inscribed with the Russian man’s name on it. 

And again, the season ran once more. Twenty-seven was coming. 

It felt like sixty-seven.

The same game, different song and different dance. 

The Grand Prix series signaled the start of the season, his assignments were hardly a surprise. He’d been to all of them at least once. Skate America and Trophee de France. Cup of China, NHK Cup. Skate Canada, Rostelecom Cup. The Grand Prix Final came and it seemed to be the same once more. Beijing held the same empty allure. Until, suddenly, it didn’t. 

Further confirming that ringing emptiness he’d been feeling, Viktor suddenly  _ knew _ it was different. The lights were brighter. His lungs burned from lack of air. From  _ laughing _ . His face hurt. From  _ smiling _ . He hadn’t smiled in public, truly smiled, in years. Makkachin was usually the only recipients of his quiet smiles. Once, a few years back, Mila had described them as heart-shaped and innocent. He never did understand her. His muscles ached, not from the strain of balancing on gold blades or complicated quad jumps. From  _ dancing _ , letting loose and uncaring of the stares. 

He could feel his skin on fire, it felt like he’d been buried under a lake of ice.

His entire body buzzed with electricity.

Viktor had never felt more alive than in this moment. Dancing with Yuuri Katsuki.

His heart was beating for something other than the cool kiss of the ice.

Hollowness rang through his heart again.

Yuuri never contacted him.

Not after the night he thought they’d connected. 

Not after he’d (drunkenly) grinded against Viktor, begging him to become his coach.

The night Viktor thought his problems were solved.

His Nationals medal, gold, was dull like a used penny. 

The European Championship gold could have been made of tin foil and chocolate.

A win at Worlds, where he hoped and prayed so fervently that Yuuri would come to him, crushed his ribcage and lungs and it felt nearly impossible to breathe. Why was it so hard to breathe?

Gold felt so empty.

He realized, at twenty-seven, that he was lonely. All he had to show for the last sixteen years was an empty, impersonable home, his beloved Makkachin, and a case full of less-than-precious medals. He felt like the embodiment of the sport he’d held so high for the majority of his life, the prince of that very realm that held him so high yet so far back. A prince of the ice. The King of Winter. A winter that had frozen over his heart, set up that fake smile he hated giving when his picture was taken.

He wanted spring. He wanted the sun and he wanted the warmth of a breeze and he wanted the heat from a hand in his.

He wanted a spring with Yuuri. He wanted Yuuri’s infectious smile and he wanted the wash of breath that came from Yuuri’s lips that danced on his and he wanted the heat from Yuuri’s palm as the held hands in companionship and romance.

How had Yuuri enraptured him so and not even bothered to contact him in four months?

Could he not see how head over heels Viktor had been for him?

How Viktor had come out of his shell, the fake mask, for him?

He’d been properly lured. The champagne that night sweeter, the music livelier. The company, devine.

The morning his phone wouldn’t stop notifying him of incoming messages, spring came.

Just a hint. Cracks in the ice that layered over his heart. Viktor felt something, something fuller than he had in months, years. His heart crashed out of his chest, his bled over his favorite sweater. It wouldn’t stop beating  _ beating beating _ . Morning had come, spring had come and so had the sun. The breath of fresh warm air over the Ice Prince was Yuuri Katsuki’s call to him. The way his body moved to the silent video. Like music played, music he knew so well. Viktor could hear music. He could feel the sun. He wanted to lean in towards the warmth. Yuuri’s eyes connected with the video, a small smile on his lips.

In that moment, Viktor decided.

But he watched the video thirty-eight more times anyway.

That morning, he packed his bare necessities, hyped Makkachin up for an adventure, and booked a plane ticket.

He left his empty gold medals for the movers to store.

* * *

 

_ If the morning light don't steal our soul, _

_ We will walk away from empty gold. _

**Author's Note:**

> Three chapters, three skaters.


End file.
